


Hindsight

by mistr3ssquickly



Series: Luke &  Han's Adventures in Intoxication [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 14:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8288519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistr3ssquickly/pseuds/mistr3ssquickly
Summary: Han and Luke have a drink together again. It goes just as badly as it did last time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Follows _Return of the Jedi,_ but not too closely. You'll most likely want to read its predecessor ["Premonition"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8187005) first, if you've not done so already.

As far as Imperial prisons go, it’s not the worst Han’s been in. The floor and walls are clean, not streaked with blood or shit or any combination thereof, the bench along the wall long and wide enough for him to lie down without any of his parts hanging off the edges, which he’s not interested in doing but is grateful to have as an option if necessity outweighs all else. The air’s warm enough, it’s breathable, and it doesn’t smell like it’s going to kill him or significantly shorten his lifespan, all of which Han knows from previous experience not to take for granted, along with the fact that his captors are human and therefore of relatively known strength, weakness, and ability. And -- perhaps most importantly -- he’s been locked up conscious and unbound, only bleeding a little from his temple, nothing life-threatening or potentially debilitating, the guard who wounded him decidedly half-hearted in his attack; clearly conscripted by the Empire, not an enthusiastic volunteer.

But it’s a prison nonetheless and he’s trapped in it, which puts it respectably low on his list of Places to Be, his mind racing to catalogue every corner and crevice of the place, even as he saunters over to the bench and sits down in a comfortable sprawl, treating the guard on the other side of the transparisteel barrier to a crooked grin, just because he knows it’ll piss the guy off. Based on the look of the structure -- from the overhead lights, to the level of tech in the lock, to the caliber of weapons wielded by the guards -- he can tell it’s not an old operation, isn’t outdated or underfunded. Damnably difficult to escape, then, but not impossible, not with Han’s history of successfully regaining his freedom after a garden variety of incarcerations, not to mention his first mate out among the stars somewhere, free and probably furious in the deeply devastating way only wookiees have, as viciously opposed as ever to Han being locked up for any reason or any length of time.

And he’s got Luke locked up with him, though Luke’s presence, skills, and value as a co-conspirator rank significantly lower than everything else Han has at his disposal, which isn’t much, at that, his blaster taken from him first thing, then the knife he’s been hiding in his boot for the last few years, even the pitiful taser he had tucked into a hidden pocket in his vest. They even took his vest from him after discovering the taser, the paranoid bastards, and where his vest isn’t any more tactical than the stupid outer coat they took from Luke, Han rather _liked_ that vest and isn’t best pleased to have had it taken from him.

“So,” he says to Luke, once the guard’s no longer close enough to be the beneficiary of Han’s grin, “this’s fun.”

Luke gives him an unreadable look and crosses their cell to consider the door, which is at least two inches thick and sounded heavy when it closed. “It could be worse,” he says after a long moment.

“Sure,” Han says. “I could tell you stories about worse. _Much_ worse.”

“I’m sure you could,” Luke says absently, dragging the tips of his fingers down the length of the seam in the door. “I could, as well.”

He’s got his back to Han, so Han doesn’t bother repressing the cold shiver that goes down his spine at the memory of the cells beneath Jabba’s palace, the disorientation and nausea and blindness combining with the stink of death and fear and rot soaked into the sand streaked across the bedrock, the awful blackness welling up in his gut even after they’d escaped, as consuming as the panic wrapping tight around his throat as he lay in bed, listening to Leia do her best to catch him up on all he’d missed over the previous six months.

“I ever tell you about the time I got locked up on Socorro?” Han says, pushing memory aside in favor of a story he’s told often enough to have smoothed over the sharp edges, memory morphed more into legend. “Helluva thing, that was. Hadn’t been planning to stop over, but --”

“Han.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop talking for a minute.”

Han frowns at Luke’s back, equal parts annoyed and intrigued by the younger man’s uncharacteristic abruptness, but he does, as ordered, shut his mouth. Luke hasn’t moved from his spot by the door, his fingertips resting still against the seam. Isn’t moving at all, save for the barest shift in his tunic when he breathes, more a sculpture of a man than a living creature, nothing left of the excitable blonde Han remembers from the time before his carbonite nap. Luke’s hair doesn’t even flutter when the vents in the ceiling click open and breathe out a wash of cool recycled air, the even dark blonde strands staying as they were, no hint of the fluff and curl Han remembers. He’s tempted to push himself up off his spot on the bench to ruffle Luke’s hair a little, just to see if it’s still as soft as it was when it was lighter, bleached bright in the suns of the worlds he and Luke visited together, but the click of the door aborts that particular urge, Luke dropping his hand to his thigh as the door eases open, silent in the frankly startling lack of alarms.

Luke looks at him over his shoulder, blue eyes bright with an achingly welcome hint of mischief, maybe pride. “We should go,” he says.

“Well,” Han says, climbing to his feet, “I guess. If you insist.”

He winks as he says it and gets a shadow of a smile for his troubles, Luke leading him out of their cell and down the corridor their captors unwisely marched them down unhooded, allowing memory to guide the way. They find their guards seated at a table just beyond a second door that opens easily at Luke’s unspoken bidding, all three of them jumping to their feet and then stopping, calmed instantly when Luke tells them there is no problem.

“You have no reason to keep us here,” he says, striding across the room to stand well within striking range of the biggest guard. “We pose no threat to you and harbor no ill-will against your operation. We understand your position and your need for Imperial support. Should you wish to seek the protection of the Alliance, it will be yours. We want no more than you do for our departure from this place to cause you or your families suffering.”

The guards nod and thank him, calmly returning his lightsaber and outer coat along with the data chips filled with sensitive information Luke and Han had been in the middle of stealing when they were arrested. They hand over Han’s vest and knife and taser and blaster after that, settling back at their table before Han’s managed to arrange his weapons on his person once again, all of them thoroughly docile, as if they weren’t allowing the calmest jail-break in the history of incarceration to go on right under their noses. From the look Luke’s giving him when Han glances at him, Han would be willing to bet he’s got an expression on his face that would lose him every credit he's got to his name _and_ the _Falcon_ in five minutes flat at a gambling table, but he isn't gambling and gets the impression that Luke isn't, either, the younger man's confidence as he strides from the compound and out into the artificially lit grounds beyond as natural and imbued with calm as if he were crossing the mess hall on a protected Alliance base with Han at his side, not escaping from a prison with his hands in his pockets instead of on his weapon.

“There,” he says, pointing at an old Y-wing half-obscured in the gloom, as far away from the compound lights as it is. “That should do to get us off the planet.”

“If it’ll fire up,” Han says.

Luke treats him to the barest of smiles. “Between the two of us,” he says, “I think we can probably manage.”

He’s entirely right about that, the Y-wing purring to life after fewer than ten minutes of their combined efforts have elapsed, its nav-system a little flakey and its ability to jump to hyperspace non-existent, but its shields, communication systems, and (most importantly) weapons systems are all online, Luke sending a coded message to the _Falcon_ after Han’s confirmed that there’s nothing in the comm systems to help their captors track them down and maybe tranq them this time to keep Luke from doing ... whatever it was he did, both to the door and to the guards.

“It’s been real,” Han says to no one and nothing in particular, tossing off a lazy salute in the general direction of the compound as he slides into the captain’s flight-seat and preps the Y-wing for launch, Luke seated at his back, calibrating the weapons systems to his preferences. “Hopin’ never to come back. You?”

“Not under its current leadership, no,” Luke says.

He’s quiet as Han launches the ship, quiet even after they’ve pushed through the planet’s atmosphere and gotten far enough away without incident that Han’s nerves stop prickling in anticipation of pursuit, the boredom of flying a ship without a functioning hyperdrive starting to settle like an ache in his bones. It’s a different sort of quiet than Han’s used to from Luke, new since he came out of carbon freeze. Not entirely unlike Luke’s quiet stillness in their shared cell, almost as if he were making himself non-existent, for all that Han can hear him breathing over his headset if he concentrates hard enough and listens for it, the occasional creak of the aged leather flight-seat when Luke shifts.

“So,” he says after the silence has really started to get to him, his mouth running before he’s fully thought through what he’ll say, “pretty neat trick you pulled back there.”

“Thanks,” Luke says.

“That one’a the things you learned on -- where were you, again? Dartonian? Dashania?”

“Dagobah,” Luke says. “Yes.”

“Dagobah,” Han echoes. “Funny, you learnin’ how to magic open high-tech prisons there. Last I heard, Dagobah was nothin’ but organic sludge and ghost stories.”

Luke breathes out through his nose in what Han optimistically assumes is a quiet laugh, though it’s impossible to tell without seeing the guy. “I learned the principles of physical manipulation on Dagobah,” he says. “They can be applied to any physical object once you’ve mastered the concept.”

“Careful, Luke,” Han says, “you’re startin’ to sound _smart._ Can’t have that.”

The sound he hears in answer is undeniably a chuckle, warm and human, achingly familiar. And since there’s no one around to see Han’s face, he doesn’t even try not to grin about it, his reflection in the transparisteel dome grinning stupidly back at him.

He’s lost most of his sense of humor by the time they make the rendezvous point with Chewbacca, the mere _thought_ of the distance they’ve managed to travel in the amount of time the _Falcon’s_ flown in hyperspace enough to make his temper warm under his skin, his frustration with sub-lightspeed travel as powerful as ever. It earns him Luke coming aboard the _Falcon_ as a passenger, though, which is nice, the younger man communicating with little more than a wrinkle of his nose his disinterest in piloting the Y-wing anywhere other than where it’s sitting, which is less entertaining a rejection of their stolen ride than Han was hoping he’d get, but he doesn’t complain, happy enough to have Luke up in the cockpit with him again as he's not been since the clusterfuck on Endor. And where he’s quiet still, he's _there,_ close enough for Han to see when he turns around after they've launched, and he’s not doing his stoic Jedi impression, instead offering Han a smile so subtle it's barely even a smile at all.

“Dunno about you," Han says, “but gettin’ locked up always makes me thirsty. Join me for a drink?”

Luke dips his head in a single nod. “Sure,” he says, his acquiescence little more than a gesture of politeness, Han suspects. But he isn’t one to second-guess a good opportunity when he sees one, so he leaves Chewie to man the cockpit and leads Luke down to the galley, picking out from his honestly embarrassingly small stash the bottle of liquor available that has the least offensive flavor but still packs enough of a punch for his preferences and pours two generous glasses. He hands one to Luke and knocks his own against it in a toast, taking a generous mouthful to roll around over his tongue, the burn of it welcome in the familiarity of his ship’s belly, as close to home as he’s known for decades.

 _Less_ familiar is the way Luke mirrors him, taking a big drink from his glass and swallowing it without shuddering or wrinkling his nose at the flavor, then emptying the glass in two more big swallows, taking it down like the seasoned space pirate Han knows for a _fact_ he is not. He goes more slowly on the second, just sipping at the liquor after Han’s refilled his glass, but the way he sighs and closes his eyes after his first sip is ... _weird._ Even by recent standards.

“You okay there, kid?” Han says, finishing his first drink and pouring a second, not in small part due to his dislike for the idea of Luke Skywalker out-pacing him.

“Fine,” Luke says, opening his eyes. “I’m glad everything worked out all right on the mission.”

Their mission was two wookiee hairs and a really hard conversation with Leia away from being a complete failure, but Han doesn’t bring that up. “Thanks to you,” he says. “You’re gettin’ better at the whole Force thing. Color me impressed.” He gestures with his glass, none of the liquor inside sloshing over the edge, thanks only to his long career of drinking and gesturing (and the arguably small amount of the stuff he’s ingested.) “Must be proud’a yourself.”

Luke shakes his head. “It’s not something to be proud of,” he says. “Nor is it something I should be using for personal gain, but --” He takes a long drink from his glass, licking his lips after he’s swallowed. “My thinking was that, for the good of the Alliance and the worlds coming to us for protection, and for the good of those we can protect with the information we’d procured, there was no other option. They need us, still. I think.” He lifts his left shoulder in a shrug. “That’s why I did it.”

“Uh-huh,” Han says. “You, uh -- you do realize that _we_ need us, too, right Luke? Alive? Because bein’ dead is just a real downer.”

“Unless we’re causing suffering, or violence,” Luke says, dead serious in the face of Han’s attempt at humor. Han rolls his eyes.

“Good thing we’re not, then.”

“We _could_ be, though,” Luke says. “You and I, we’re -- we’ve killed before, Han. Both of us. Countless ‘troopers, spies, members of the Empire. Not in self-defense, either, we’ve --”

“That’s how war goes, Luke,” Han interrupts. “Doesn’t really give you any other choice but to fight until there’s surrender or a stalemate or peace. And there _won’t_ be peace, in case you’re thinkin’a holdin’ your breath waitin’ for it. Peace’s a figment of idealists’ imagination.”

“I’m not an idealist,” Luke says. “I just --” He draws a deep breath, exhaling slowly before taking a healthy pull from his drink, which he apparently thinks serves as end-punctuation to his thoughts, the silence stretching as Han waits for him to pick up his line of thinking once again.

“Well,” he says when Luke doesn’t add to his hanging contribution to the conversation, “for what it’s worth, _I_ don’t think you’re evil, or that we’re evil, or that you’re usin’ your Force stuff for evil.”

Luke makes a noise at the back of his throat that rubs Han the wrong way in its dismissiveness, but it’s not enough for him to pick a fight, tired as he is, so he keeps his objections behind his teeth, taking a hearty swallow of his drink instead. It burns just right going down, the numbness barely starting to spread through his nervous system achingly welcome after the tension suffusing the mission and subsequent capture, the unwelcome distance grown between himself and Luke brought into sharp focus over the long hours they spent together in their thrice-damned stolen Y-wing. He looks sidelong at the younger man as he works his way through the drink in his hand, watches Luke do the same, steadily taking down the liquor in his glass. Takes in the control in Luke’s posture, the obvious awareness he never used to have about himself, almost like a painful self-consciousness. Nothing like the Luke Han remembers, the Luke Han very _fondly_ remembers, all grand gestures and voice going shrill whenever he was in a passion about something, the easy grin Luke never hesitated to treat the world to whenever he was happy about something, his joy infectious, lighting up whatever room he was in.

“Y’know,” he says, as memory bleeds into the conversation left hanging between them, “since we’re on the topic of you using the Force for good, I remember the time you tried your lockpicking trick here on the _Falcon._ Didn’t go so great for you back then, if you remember.”

“I remember,” Luke says.

“So you’ll correct me if I’m wrong,” Han continues, “but I’d say you’d’a been usin’ your magic tricks for personal reasons back then, tryin’ to break out of my cargo hold so you could pick another fight with Chewie, maybe go get your ass kicked in a seedy pub. That’s pretty different from what you did tonight. Last night. Whenever that was. _That_ looked to me like you savin’ my skin _and_ the intel your sister and her guys need to play savior to the galaxy, and you just happened to save your own hide as well in the process. So.”

Luke sighs through his nose, his eyes unfocused as he stares at the far wall of the galley. “You’re not entirely wrong,” he says softly, “but you’re not entirely right, either.”

“I can live with those odds,” Han says.

He pours both of them a third drink, his hand maybe a little unsteadier than usual as he pours, his face just starting to feel numb. It’s too much too fast, inebriation crawling over him like a shadow, quickly dragging him below the surface of the pleasant haze he’d been looking for when he invited Luke to drink with him, but competition has always been and very likely always will be his biggest weakness, so he takes a pull from his glass before setting it aside, licking his lips as he looks Luke up and down.

“Best part’a that night was you sleepin’ in my bunk,” he says. “Wasn’t how I’d planned to take you to bed, but hey. Could’a been worse. Whole _night_ could’a been worse.”

Luke doesn’t look at him, focused instead on tipping his glass in a gentle circle, the light glinting dully off the surface of the liquor inside. “Nothing about that night went like it was supposed to,” he says. “Like I thought it was going to go.”

Han shrugs. “Like I said, it could’a gone worse,” he says. “You saved me, stopped a trafficker, didn’t kill anybody -- you ask me, I’d say you did your Force religion proud. Pretty damn good for a night stuck on a dinky backwater planet in the Outer Rim.”

“I didn’t save you,” Luke says because of _course_ he does, Han’s patience with his newfound love of being nitpicky dwindling faster than the alcohol in his glass.

“Don’t split hairs, kid,” he says. “Chewie told me all about it later, how you called him for back-up, all in a panic. How he found you guardin’ me, your magic sword out and ready for you to take on every sentient in the galaxy ‘fore you’d let ‘em have me. I’d count that as savin’ me. Pretty sure anyone would.”

Luke shakes his head. “That isn’t what I meant,” he says. “That night -- do you remember the Twi’lek?”

“‘Course I remember the damn Twi’lek, Luke, you think I’m goin’ senile or something?”

“Do you remember what I said to him?” Luke says. “Before we let him go, do you remember what I told him?”

Han frowns. “Sure, more or less,” he says. “You told him to quit bein’ bad, defend the weak against the strong.” He waves his hand, a drop of liquor escaping this time to splash on the back of his hand, and because it’s decent liquor and he’s not one to be wasteful, he licks it off. “The Luke Skywalker Mantra.”

“I told him to offer service in exchange for transport,” Luke says softly. “To protect those who could not protect themselves against threats greater than their defenses.”

“Kriff, kid, I was _kidding_ about you havin’ a mantra. Didn’t think you actually --”

“I wrote it down,” Luke says. “That night. I was so proud of it that I wrote it down. All of it.”

“And then memorized it.”

“Yes. I told Master Yoda all about it, too. I thought he’d be impressed.”

Han frowns. “Master who?”

“Master Yoda, the Jedi who trained me on Dagobah,” Luke says. “He was teaching me about using the Force only for good, so I told him about you and the Twi’lek and what I’d done. I thought he’d approve. I thought he’d tell me I’d done well.”

“Guessin’ he didn’t,” Han says, dislike forming already for Luke’s teacher.

Luke nods. “He was _furious,”_ he says. “He said I was like a child playing with a weapon that I couldn’t possibly hope to control. He said I was on the path to the Dark Side, that he wasn’t sure even his teaching and guidance could keep me from turning. From causing pain and death across the galaxy. He said I was too old, too set in my ways. That I had more to unlearn than I had to learn from him.”

His words are even, measured, his tone calm, but Han’s known him long enough to see the hurt Luke’s doing his best to hide, the scars of devastation and fear and disappointment laced throughout the younger man’s words. He knocks back the last swallow of liquor in his glass and pushes himself to his feet, his legs only a bit unsteady on numb feet as he crosses the galley and hauls Luke up by the arm, putting them face-to-face.

“You gotta know that’s an overreaction,” he says, “right? A damn foolish, arrogant, authoritative --”

“He was right,” Luke says. “About everything, Han. He knew he didn’t have much time to train me, he _told_ me he didn’t have much time, and that I was already leaning towards the Dark Side and needed all the training I could possibly get, but I didn’t listen to him, I left, and by the time I got back it was too late for him to finish teaching me what he knew. What I didn’t know. _Don’t_ know.”

“Looks to me like you know more’n enough,” Han says, reaching out to grip Luke by the back of the neck, just so he can give the guy a bit of a shake. “You ain’t actin’ like a Sith, and all you’ve done since Endor is risk your fool neck for everybody in the galaxy, tryin’ to keep the peace.”

“Like a child playing with a weapon,” Luke repeats. “I _am_ trying to do the right thing, but --”

Han shakes him again, harder this time. “Ever occur to you that maybe this Yoda guy was just tryin’ to get under your skin?” he says. “Keep you scared so you’d do what he wanted you to do? That’s how indoctrination works, kid. Oldest play in the book.”

 _That_ shuts Luke up, his lips pressed in a thin line when he looks up, meeting Han’s gaze. He stays that way without blinking long enough to send a chill down Han’s spine, the old stories from Han’s childhood about mind-readers rising unbidden in the back of his mind the longer the silence stretches.

“I thought that, too,” Luke says quietly, just as Han’s starting to seriously think about making up an excuse to step back, away from Luke’s unnerving stare. “I was so _angry_ after Bespin, so scared, I tried to justify what I’d done, tried to explain away what Master Yoda had said. I’d managed to convince myself that he was wrong, too. I was so _sure_ he was wrong, that I was doing all right. But then we went to Jabba’s stronghold to get you, and --”

He drops his gaze, his shoulders slumping as he shakes his head. Han gives him another shake.

“And?” he prompts.

Luke swallows. “Jabba’s advisor,” he says, “on Tatooine. He was the same Twi’lek who tried to poison you, all those years ago. I recognized him the minute I saw him, used the same trick on him to get access to Jabba. The very same trick, and it worked just as well.”

Han drops his grip on Luke’s neck, crossing his arms over his chest instead. “You’ve _gotta_ be kiddin’ me.”

“No. It works on those with undisciplined minds, and he --”

“I mean about it bein’ the same guy,” Han says. “You sure about that, Luke? I mean, Twi’leks all pretty much look the same, after a certain age. Could’a just looked similar to our guy.”

Luke shakes his head. “No, it was him,” he says. “I could tell, even before he spoke to me. When you’ve touched someone’s mind, it’s -- you can recognize them more quickly. He didn’t recognize me. He knew my name, but only because Jabba had warned him not to admit me to the inner chambers.”

“Well, you _were_ makin’ a bit of a name for yourself by then,” Han says. “Wasn’t like it was a big secret who took out the _Death Star._ And everyone knows you’re from Tatooine, so it figures Jabba’d be scared’a you dropping by. _Especially_ after he grabbed me, ain’t like it was a big secret that the _Millennium Falcon_ had been seen with Alliance fighters. Jabba was a lot’a things, but he wasn’t stupid. ‘S how he managed to survive so long, despite not being able to do a damn thing himself.”

Luke coughs a bitter laugh in answer. “Exactly,” he says. “That’s _exactly_ right.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Jabba was weak,” Luke says. “Hutts, in general, aren’t very fast or agile, physically. It’s their intellect and ability to undermine and amass political power that allows them to thrive as they do across the galaxy. His biology allowed him to operate more comfortably on Tatooine than any of his subservients, but only underground, and only with proper nourishment and hydration. Going up against me, a young human with the power to manipulate my physical surroundings and all of Jabba’s armed guards, he wouldn’t have a chance to survive. Logically, I would have the upper hand in any scenario, and I would be the biggest threat to him in person, where I could control my attacks, targeting only Jabba, not any of the bystanders in his attendance.”

Han nods slowly, hyperaware of the alcohol sloshing in his brain as he does. “All right,” he says, “yeah. But --”

“I told the Twi’lek to protect those who could not protect themselves against threats greater than their defenses,” Luke says. “I _meant_ for him to seek out the innocent, the _good,_ and protect them, but I didn’t tell him to do that. I just said for him to protect those who were outmatched, and that is _exactly_ what he did.” He reaches out, barely brushing his fingertips against Han’s elbow before dropping his hand to his side. “I ended up letting him have you,” he says, “after taking such pride in protecting you from him.”

“Oh _c’mon,_ Luke,” Han says, rolling his eyes. “That’s melodramatic, even for you. Ain’t like the Twi’lek was on Bespin, and it ain’t like he was workin’ for Boba Fett. _That’s_ who nabbed me, thanks to Lando. And Vader, don’t forget about him, he’s the one who sic’d the Fett on me in the first place. Lotta folks out there lookin’ for me, ain’t a surprise you ran into one you’d met before. Probably gonna happen again, unless I manage to kill all of ‘em first. Which I won’t, but I’ll try, and I won’t have a moment’s regret about it, you can bet your last credit on it.”

“I should have killed the Twi’lek that night when I had the chance,” Luke says, his voice dark. “I ended up doing it eventually anyway -- he was on the barge with Jabba when it went up in flames. Letting him go just delayed the inevitable and allowed him to cause harm. At my bidding, too.”

“Ever occur to you that maybe he was just _bad?”_ Han says. “That if you hadn’t off’d him, somebody else would’ve? That maybe he just had it comin’ to him?”

Luke nods. “Yes,” he says, “I’ve considered that. It made me wonder if that’s what they’ll say when I die. That it was inevitable, and that Vader should have done away with me when he had the chance. Or Jabba. The wampa on Hoth. The ‘troopers sent to kill my family, back on Tatooine.”

“Oh for the love of -- you’re not _evil,_ Luke,” Han says, dropping his hands to his hips and getting right in Luke’s personal space. “Powerful, sure, and that’s scary, but you’re so damn scared of yourself, you won’t _let_ yourself be evil. Too busy second-guessin’ every move you make. From where I’m sittin’, it looks like you had a shit teacher who didn’t teach you much beyond feelin’ guilty for having the power you have and bein’ scared of what you’re able to do with it. Hell, do you even _know_ what you’re capable of? Like what your limits are? ‘Cause every time I see you boxed in, you seem to have a new trick up your sleeve, and nobody ever seems to get hurt by it.”

“I’ve killed --”

“Yeah, with weapons,” Han says, “no different from my blaster or Chewie’s bowcaster. Yeah, I know your ‘saber’s the traditional weapon of a Jedi, and you’re probably gonna tell me there’s some Force bullshit used in makin’ one, but it’s still a weapon, Luke. Doesn’t have any purpose beyond maiming and killing. That’s what it’s for, and your damn teachers’re the ones who gave it to you, which is as good as tellin’ you to go out and kill if you have to.”

“You don’t --”

“Well neither do you!” Han snaps, his temper flaring finally, unchecked through the wash of alcohol in his system. “You’ve been guessin’ the whole time since the old man died on the _Death Star_ and from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve done a damn good job of bein’ the hero in everything you do, so -- what?”

Luke shakes his head, his mouth curved still in the abstruse smile that brought Han up short in his ranting. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, “but thank you for saying it. It -- it means a lot to me.”

He sidesteps Han before Han’s come up with an answer to that, moves smoothly towards the dejarik table, finishing off what’s in his glass, his hand steady as he sets the glass down next to Han’s, no sign of inebriation in his body language. Han frowns at him, grabbing Luke by the sleeve of his tunic when Luke moves forward like he’s going to leave the conversation as it is, his insult to Han’s intelligence hanging unaddressed between them.

“Look, kid,” he says, “you ain’t gonna save the universe single-handedly. I don’t know everything, but I _do_ know that. You’re doin’ your best, and that’s all you can do. Tell me you get _that,_ at least.”

“I do,” Luke says. “Thank you.”

He sounds like he’s trying to placate Han’s temper, like he’s lying about agreeing with or even understanding what Han’s said, but Han’s too tired to call him out on it, too tired to stand around trying to find the Luke he remembers under the layers of Jedi knight and self-flagellation even strong liquor doesn’t seem to penetrate, so he leaves Luke to be all mystical and excuses himself to his bunk, grumbling curses as he strips out of his clothes and bathes, his hands clumsy, dulled with too much drink. He checks in with Chewbacca over the comm as he dresses after he’s showered, expecting the mother-henning he gets from his first mate but rolling his eyes over it all the same, only raising his voice a little as he reassures Chewie that he’ll get some rest.

“Ask him yourself,” he says when Chewbacca wants to know if Luke’s doing all right. “He’s in a mood, though, so don’t expect an answer you’ll like when you ask.”

Chewbacca offers him a variety of insults, most of which he aims at Han’s maturity (or, more specifically, his lack thereof), and tells him to go to bed, which would bother Han if he’d not spent the last decade or so listening to variations on the same theme, so he shuts off his comlink and climbs into his bunk, the bedding achingly familiar under his tired body, luxurious in the way it feels only after he’s been forced away from it, given the chance to appreciate what he’s got.

He wakes what feels like scant minutes later to the sound of the door to his quarters opening and Chewbacca bitching miserably at him, calling him _cub_ and complaining about irresponsibility and stupidity, reminding him that the human body is woefully ill-equipped to metabolize poisons, a lecture Han’s heard enough over the years he’s flown across the galaxy with the wookiee at his side that he could probably recite it himself if his throat could at all handle speaking Shyriiwook, but he comes up short reminding Chewbacca that the big hairball can go straight to go to hell with his lectures when he turns on the overhead lights and sees that he isn’t the intended recipient of Chewbacca’s lecture (this time), that it’s intended for Luke, the younger man leaning against Chewbacca’s side, tunic half-unfastened and hair messy, his posture loose and swaying, kept vertical primarily by Chewbacca’s arm wrapped tightly around him.

“The hell happened to him?” Han says, pushing himself out of bed and crossing his quarters to haul Luke’s face up where he can have a look at it, the smell of alcohol on the younger man’s breath answer enough to his question. “Oh, he’s gonna regret this in the morning,” he grumbles when Luke doesn’t answer with anything more than a wet sigh. “What’re you bringin’ him here for? He’s got his own perfectly good bunk to be hungover in.”

Chewbacca growls at him in answer, shoving past Han to dump Luke in Han’s bed, pointing a hairy finger in Han’s face the minute he’s got his hands free, ordering Han to look after the younger man, reminding him tersely of all the times Han’s been in Luke’s position with Chewbacca nannying him. Han swats the finger out of his face and casts a frown at Luke, the younger man loosely sprawled on his bed and breathing like he’s just starting the downward spiral into misery that inevitably ends a night of heavy drinking, Han’s stomach clenching faintly in sympathy.

“Yeah, I’ll hold his hair while he pukes,” he promises Chewbacca. _“This_ time. Do me a favor and go put a coded lock on the liquor while I’m busy doin’ that, will you? I ain’t doin’ this again.”

Chewbacca informs him that he’ll do it however many times Luke chooses to drink himself into a stupor, then ruffles his hair and demands that Han call if Luke needs anything, as if his overbearing presence could do anything to alleviate the misery not far in Luke’s future. He does look genuinely concerned, though, casting one last long glance at Luke before trundling out of Han’s quarters, so Han promises he’ll call and holds back his usual teasing about Chewbacca being an enormous softie where the Skywalker twins are concerned, patting the big guy on the back as he goes, just because that kind of thing matters to wookiees.

“Got my first mate all worried, Luke,” he says, settling on the edge of his bunk and resting his hand on Luke’s shoulder, feeling the muscle shift underneath, firmer and more defined than he remembers Luke being the last time he touched the guy or saw him undressed. “For the record, I ain’t all that happy with you, either. Wouldn’t’a pegged you as the type to get blackout drunk to drown your worries. You leave any’a my liquor behind, or did you drain the whole stash?”

Luke draws a shaky breath and exhales it on something that sounds vaguely like _didn’t,_ nuzzling into Han’s pillow as if he could escape his own bad decisions by burrowing into the fabric. Not interested in conversation, then, which doesn’t surprise Han in the slightest. He gives Luke’s shoulder another pat, then crosses the room to the medi-kit he keeps well-stocked for instances of needing to tend to injuries Chewie doesn’t need to know about, pulls out a pouch of water. “You’ll want this sooner or later,” he tells Luke, returning to the bed and setting the pouch down beside the pillow. “Good for helpin’ you throw up if you need to, good for rehydrating you after you’ve managed to throw everything up.”

“Won’t throw up,” Luke manages, the words barely intelligible where his face is still mostly buried in Han’s pillow. Sweat’s started to bead on his temple, his face pale, which Han takes as a sign that, contrary to Luke’s beliefs, the contents of the younger man’s stomach aren’t long for staying where they are.

He keeps that prophecy to himself, reaching around Luke’s belly and unfastening his tunic the rest of the way, unfastening Luke’s trousers as well while he’s at it. Freeing Luke from his clothing completely takes more effort, Luke obstinately resisting every single attempt Han makes to move him, even a little, but Han’s not gotten where he’s gotten in life by giving up easily, so he manages to strip Luke down to his undershirt and shorts, dropping his tunic and trousers and socks into a haphazard pile on the floor at the foot of the bed, figures Luke’s sweat hard enough in them that he’ll want to send them through a cleaner before wearing them again. Luke whines when Han tugs at the single leather glove he’s taken to wearing on his right hand lately, curls his fingers weakly as if he thinks he can keep the glove where it is if his hand’s closed in a fist, but the glove looks stupid enough when he’s fully clothed, looks well and truly ridiculous when he’s in nothing but his unders, so Han persists, tugging it off and adding it to the pile of black clothing in the floor. It comes off with surprising ease, not at all clammy with sweat like Han’s expecting it to be, and when Luke curls his fingers into a loose fist once again, tucking his hand under his chin like he’s trying to hide it from Han’s gaze, there’s a gentle whirring sound, almost like --

“When the hell did _this_ happen?” Han demands when he reaches under Luke’s chin to squeeze at his wrist and feels the unmistakable shift and vibration of a cybernetic structure beneath the skin.

Luke whines, trying to pull his hand from Han’s grasp. “Bespin,” he says when Han doesn’t let him go.

 _“Bespin?”_ Han echoes. “That was over a year ago! What the _hell_ happened?”

“Vader,” Luke breathes, “hurt you. And Leia. Wanted to kill him for it.”

“Didn’t go like you planned, huh,” Han says. He pulls Luke’s hand up for a closer look, drags his fingertips down the younger man’s wrist and forearm until he finds the seam where bionic skin meets organic tissue, goosebumps pricking the organic skin where he’s stroking it. “Not a bad replacement,” he says. “Better’n most I’ve seen. Guessin’ your princess had something to do with that.”

Luke doesn’t answer him, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheek and his breathing more even and less labored than it was before. He’s either asleep or doing a good job of faking it, so Han lowers his hand back to the mattress and shuts off the lights before climbing into bed behind him, tugging the blanket up over both of them, situating the water pouch so it’ll be hard for Luke to miss when he wakes and inevitably needs it. His neck protests the lack of pillow, but he’s feeling generous enough to let Luke have it, pillowing his head on his own arm instead, draping his other arm over Luke’s side as an afterthought. He’s drifted into a shallow doze when Luke finally stirs, though the younger man does little more than push himself up into a seated position and drink some of the water Han left for him, a far sight better than the stumbling dash for the ‘fresher and violent retching Han had expected to wake to.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” he says when Han stirs and, on the second try, gets both eyes open.

“Wasn’t asleep,” Han says. “You feelin’ okay?”

Luke nods. “Fine.”

“Uh- _huh._ Your, uh, Force religion help with hangovers or somethin’? Way you were clinging to Chewie when he brought you in here, I thought you’d be having a real bad night.”

At his side, Luke shifts. “I didn’t mean for him to see me like that,” he says. “Either of you.”

“Ain’t like we haven’t seen that before,” Han says. “Hell, you’ve seen me laid out a few times. Life ain’t worth livin’ if you don’t make the mistake’a drinking too much at least once. Learn the true meaning of misery that way, gives you perspective.”

“It wasn’t my first time,” Luke says, “being that drunk. I’d done it once before, on Tatooine.”

Han raises an eyebrow at him. “Wouldn’t’a pegged your folks as the type to let you drink,” he says, “from what you’ve told me about them.”

Luke shakes his head. “It was later,” he said. “After I’d come back.”

“Ah. Chasin’ away the nostalgia with a bottle, huh?”

“More or less,” Luke says. “Lando invited me, and I based my drinking off of his.” He takes a long sip of water. “His tolerance was considerably higher than mine.”

Laughter pushes itself up Han’s throat in a burst of humor strong enough to make Luke startle, which just makes Han laugh harder. “Of all the drinking buddies you could’a picked for your first time out,” he says, “you picked Lando fucking Calrissian. Surprised he didn’t let you drink yourself into the ground, kid.”

“I think he might have, if he’d had the chance” Luke admits, and Han could _swear_ he could hear the guy's blush this time. “Leia found us before I could do any permanent damage to myself. She was _furious_ with us both. Wouldn’t talk to me for two days, afterwards.”

“That sounds like her,” Han says. He puts his hands up when Luke turns towards him, probably glaring at him, as always fiercely defensive where his sister is concerned. “It’s just the truth, kid, your sister’s got no tolerance for weakness and vice. Surprised she didn’t lock you up just to keep you safe from yourself.” He pauses, waiting for Luke to confess that that’s _exactly_ what his sister did to him, but Luke stays quiet this time. “She leave you to Lando’s nursemaiding, then?”

Luke shakes his head. “Chewbacca took care of me through the worst of it,” he says. He looks at Han sidelong. “He was the best choice, really. He seemed to know exactly how to care for a hungover human.”

“Yeah he’s got plenty’a experience in that department,” Han says. He reaches out, bumping the back of his hand against Luke’s elbow. “Glad he was there to look after you. He was pretty adamant about me takin’ care of you tonight, big mother-hen that he is.”

“Yes, I heard your conversation,” Luke says.

“Uh-huh, sure. Kid, you were droolin’ down Chewie’s arm when he brought you in, you can’t convince me you --”

“I had it mostly under control by then,” Luke interrupts. “I’d been experimenting with the Force, seeing how well it could retard the advance of poisons in my system. It got away from me while you and I were talking because I let myself get upset. It took me a while to get it back under control and address some of the physical responses it caused in my body chemistry, afterwards. That’s why I wasn’t very talkative when Chewbacca brought me here. I was concentrating.”

Han chews that over for a moment. “Seriously,” he says.

“Seriously.”

“And you’re all better now.”

“More or less, yes.”

“Turn on the lights, I gotta see this for myself.”

He squints in the sudden wash of light as Luke does as he’s told, regretting immediately his decision to have the lights on, the unusual brightness reminding him that he had more than his usual amount of hard liquor as well, and had it on an empty stomach; a bad combination on a good day, and he didn’t even have one of _those_ ahead of making bad choices with his liquor stash. He can see well enough to make out Luke’s gait, though, controlled and even in the four steps it takes him to come back over to the bunk and sit down, maybe squinting a little in the bright overhead light but not nearly as badly as Han’s squinting. He’s maybe a little pale, too, but not the bone-white or red-flush he _should_ be. Isn’t sitting hunched over himself like he’s in pain or nauseated or dizzy. Looks like he’s been up a little longer than a man should be after the day they’ve had, but nothing more. He appears, maddeningly, to be in perfect health.

“Did this with the Force, huh?” Han says, poking him in the arm.

“Yes.”

“I’m inclined to call that cheating.”

Luke’s mouth twitches at the corner, like he’s doing his best not to smile and failing at it. “It’s certainly an advantage,” he says.

“It’s a waste’a good liquor, is what it is,” Han says. “You get any’a the fun out of it, or did you drown yourself too fast to get that, even?”

“I think I may have gone too fast,” Luke says, frowning like he’s considering a universal mystery, not reflecting on a night of drinking cheap gin in the belly of the _Falcon_ with Han. “It felt like the room was starting to spin a little after the second glass, almost like we were making the jump to lightspeed while turning. That’s when I put a stop to it.”

“With the Force,” Han says.

“With the Force, yes.”

Han shakes his head. “Your religion let you have _any_ fun in life?”

“It’s not a religion, really,” Luke says.

“Sure looks like one to me,” Han says. “Power locked down under a million rules, no freedom to choose your own path, no fun allowed, plenty’a guilt taught by the elders if you _do_ have a little fun here and there, all of it intended to keep you in line, everything taught in terms’a absolutes, light ‘n dark, good versus evil -- that’s every religion I’ve ever seen, Luke.”

He braces himself for Luke to get mad at him, to tell him off like he usually does when Han talks shit about the Force, half-expects the guy to walk out on him, but Luke doesn’t budge from his spot on the edge of Han’s bed, instead making a soft sound in the back of his throat and leaning back, his gaze unfocused as he considers Han’s words.

“Maybe,” he says, slowly, “but then how is that different from the rules the Galactic Senate used to make, or the rules the Alliance is setting up? It’s all intended to provide protection from perceived harm, isn’t it? And you don’t consider those rules a religion.”

“No,” Han says, “but they ain’t keepin’ me from enjoying life, generally speaking.”

“Would you consider it a religion if they did?”

Han shrugs. “If everyone’s obeying and nobody’s askin’ questions, sure. Followin’ the rules doesn’t automatically make you one of the good guys, y’know. Vader worked under the rules set up by the Empire, and he was a nasty piece’a work. I broke about two dozen laws, helpin’ out on Kashyyyk, and if you say _that_ wasn’t a good thing, you’ll have every wookiee within earshot comin’ over to change your mind, or at least adjust the number’a limbs you’re boasting.”

Luke snorts softly. “I wouldn’t argue that it was a good thing,” he says, “nor would I argue that Vader was evil.”

“Good. So we’re clear on that,” Han says. He squints at Luke, his brain sagging a little with fatigue. “Don’t know how we got on this topic in the first place. Much as I love you, Luke, you _know_ I ain’t one for talkin’ philosophy in the middle of the night.”

“I’m sorry,” Luke says.

Han waves it away. “Ain’t complaining,” he says, “just can’t remember what we were talkin’ about, is all.”

Luke’s expression warms a little, at that. “Drinking,” he says.

“Right. And usin’ the Force to cheat yourself out of a hard-earned hangover. Still say that’s cheating.”

“I don’t think I’ll be doing it again,” Luke says. “Drinking, that is. I’ve regretted it every time I’ve tried it.”

Han rolls his eyes. “That’d be what, a grand total of three times?” he says.

“A few more than that,” Luke says. “My first was on my sixteenth birthday. My uncle took me into town and bought me a shot.” He offers Han another of his restrained half-smiles. “It tasted awful.”

“You ever tried drinking anything that _wasn’t_ strong enough to degrease an engine?” Han wants to know.

Luke nods. “Whatever it was we had the night you were drugged. Ale, I think you said it was.”

Han reaches over and ruffles Luke’s hair like he’s been wanting to do since they were locked up together. It’s just as soft as he remembered it being, for all that it’s darker and styled differently than it used to be, and since it’s longer, it gets in Luke’s eyes right away, his annoyance as he reaches up to brush it away achingly welcome. Humanizing in a way little else has been with him lately.

“Yeah, that was ale,” Han says, leaning back to watch Luke try to get his hair back into some semblance of order, pleased when the younger man is wholly unsuccessful, “and now that you bring it up, I could go for another pint’a that stuff. Ain’t hard to get ahold of, if you’d like to join me, see how you like it when it’s not poisoned.”

“Technically, _you_ were the one who drank it when it was poisoned,” Luke says, but Han waves it away, yawning.

“Too tired for details,” he says.

“Sorry,” Luke says. “I didn’t mean to keep you up so long. Thank you, for listening. And for looking after me.”

“Yeah it was such a hardship,” Han drawls, rolling his eyes. “C’mon, turn out the light and get back in my bed. Chewie’ll skin me alive if I let you outta my sight, I don’t care if you’re all better or not. And you _know_ he will, don’t try tellin’ me any different.”

Luke drops his gaze, a full, _real_ smile gracing his features as he shakes his head. “I don’t think either of you would ever harm the other,” he says, looking up through his fringe at Han, but he otherwise does as he’s been told, joining Han in bed once he’s switched off the light, stretching out on his back with his fingers laced together atop his belly. He stays still while Han settles in beside him, slipping back into the stoic Jedi act Han is growing to hate more with every minute he sees it in action, so Han distracts him by reaching up to touch the back of his right hand, the machinery of Luke’s wrist whirring softly in response to the tension in his muscles, but he doesn’t push Han away, doesn’t tell him to stop when Han traces the subtle line of the artificial bones under the bionic skin.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my hand before,” he says after a long minute, just as the first tendrils of sleep are ticking at the corners of Han's consciousness, the younger man’s voice so soft that Han’s not entirely sure he’s not dreamt hearing it. He wraps his hand around the far edge of Luke’s, pleased when he feels the delicate machinery under the skin shift, Luke curling his hand around Han's in a gentle grip.

“Not sure when it would’a come up,” Han says. “Ain’t like it’s obvious. ‘Cept that you wear a glove over it all the time.”

“It was more comfortable that way, at first,” Luke says. “It’s more sensitive than my real hand. The glove helped, and wearing it just became a habit, I guess.”

“Could probably get it the settings adjusted, if you wanted,” Han says. “Drop the sensitivity a little.”

“Probably. Yes.”

Han traces the line of bone up to the first knuckle of Luke's index finger, follows it to the ridge of artificial cuticle, the smooth curve of the fingernail. Luke breathes out on a sigh as Han traces down the inner curve of his index finger, turns his hand so Han can feel his palm, blindly following the lines imprinted in the false skin, imperfections designed to create the illusion of realism.

“That feels good,” Luke says when Han reaches the swell of the heel of his hand, following it inward towards the wrist. “Light touching, like that.”

Han swallows, stalwartly ignoring the effect Luke’s words have on his body. “Gimme your other hand,” he says. “Wanna see how it compares.”

Luke complies without a word, his chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths as Han touches him, dragging his fingers over the bump of veins, over age-roughened spots and old scars, the edge of fingernail vaguely jagged where Luke has apparently failed to outgrow his tendency to chew his nails when he’s bored or puzzling over a problem. The callouses emphasizing the lines in his palm, each telling a secret history of the weapons he’s wielded, the ships he’s piloted. Years he’s lived and fought and survived, despite the odds against him.

“So,” Han says, once he’s reached Luke’s wrist, the temptation warming in the back of his mind to see what else Luke might let him touch, “what’s the verdict?”

Luke sighs. “Different,” he says, “but good. Both of them.”

“Deep,” Han says.

“Hmm?”

“Nothin’. Get some sleep, unless you’ve trained the Force to nap for you.”

Luke laughs softly, the sound reverberating through his chest, warm where Han’s got his arm resting against Luke’s ribs. “I don’t think it can do that,” he says.

Han tightens his hand around Luke’s wrist and closes his eyes. “Good,” he says. “Maybe it’s not takin’ all the fun outta your life after all.”

“It’s not,” Luke says. “I promise.”

“If you’re sure.”

Luke sighs, heavily enough that Han can feel his breath whispering over his hand. “I am.” He twists his arm gently out of Han’s grip, sliding it down enough to lace their fingers together, the gesture oddly intimate in the closeness of the shared bunk, the darkness wrapped around them. “Thank you. For worrying about me.”

“Ain’t just me worried about you, Luke,” Han says.

“No. But thank you, all the same.”

Han forces himself to take a deep breath around the affection that rises up in his throat fast enough to choke him, strong enough that it’s honestly intimidating. He tips his chin forward, pressing a kiss to Luke’s hair. “Anytime, kid,” he says. “Anytime.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author’s musings:  
Hilariously, this story ends almost _exactly_ the same as its predecessor [”Premonition,”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8187005) which is either a sign that I’ve got a solid grip on this particular universe, or that I’m wholly uncreative. I’ll let you be the judge of that.

Either way, I’m apparently now stuck on the notion of Han and Luke trying to drink together and not having a very good time of it, which is actually _hilarious_ because I’ve made more toss-off references than I can count in other stories where they got drunk and had a ton of sex and everything was fine. Why won’t _that_ turn into a full story for me?

~~Mostly because my professional life is persisting still in its efforts to dissect me, and I’m apparently just going to write down-in-the-mouth philosophical ramblings instead of porn until things get better.~~ Oh well. Porn will triumph eventually.

I’ve also apparently developed a ~thing~ somewhere along the way for Luke’s hands. They’re bigger than you’d expect on a guy his size, and they’re not very delicate, which I’d expected they would be. Hands always capture my attention (just in general, it’s not a fetish, honest) and his were different from my expectations, so they captured and _held_ my attention. Go figure. Oh, and I seem to have a fixation on these two kinda-sorta-not-really holding hands? What is happening to me, I am not a sentimental person. I write Super Serious Stories, not fluff about grown men holding hands in bed.

(This is a filthy lie, I totally write fluff about grown men holding hands in bed, it’s like my _favorite_ thing to write, please send help.)

While we’re on the subject of Luke’s hands, let’s also have the tangent that it bothers me that Mark Hamill doesn’t wear a wedding ring. Guy’s been with the same partner for longer than I’ve been alive (which is just all kinds of inspiring to someone like me who married young and intends to be in this marriage for the long haul) but he wears no ring. I get that lots of celebrities are like that, and hell, my own partner doesn’t wear his ring on the correct hand because his hands are ~dainty~ and his ring doesn’t fit the left hand, but.

Sort it, Mark Hamill, I want to see a ring on that hand.


End file.
